Chapter 113
Chapter 113
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 113
Chapter Title: Chapter 8 Oh Bloody, Boom Blada (2)
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***
It pairs even better if you play the Beatles' "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da" while reading.
***
Once upon a time, long, long ago, in a city with the ridiculously long name of Braunau am Inn, there lived a boy named Ian.
It was a small city with nothing special about it. An industrial district, a little stream running through it, and its only claim to fame was a mustachioed man who enjoyed making soap out of Jews.
Yeah, our town's specialty was a madman. And my father was someone who fit right in with the local vibe.
"Ian! Iaaan! You little gremlin piece of trash! Get down here right now!"
*Crack!*
"What's this? What do you see when you look at this? Huh?"
"...."
"Still no answer to your father's words? Fine, I'll say it for you. This is—"
*Thwack!*
"—a—"
*Thud!*
"—completely empty fridge! Haven't I told you over and over? If you don't want to get beaten until you drop dead, keep! That! Fridge! Stocked! With beer!"
*Thwack!*
Of course, Father never once gave me money to buy beer. I had to beg or steal it myself. Out there in the streets full of rough factory workers.
"Ian! Oh my God! Are you okay? That wicked old dog of a man...!"
"I'm... fine."
"Oh my God! Your finger's broken! Come here! Let me treat it!"
Emily. My big sister, who lived in the dusty attic of our rundown house. I lived getting beaten every day and stealing to survive, but I believed angels existed in this world. I firmly believed one had even come down in the form of my sister. What, you thought I was the eldest son? Well... not wrong. There were two older brothers above me, and then Emily.
"Come here, you bitch!"
"Father, please don't do this! Please!"
"Heh heh heh heh. After I made you so pretty, isn't it only right you repay me? Come to Daddy...."
"Aaah! I-Ian! Don't look! Don't look... please!"
They all died. My eldest brother got on the wrong side of some thugs while begging and got beaten to death. My younger brother took a bad hit from Father's belt buckle and died. And my sister... angelic Emily...
"...."
"Go away."
"Emily."
"Go away! I said go away! You're just pitying me, aren't you? That pathetic look in your eyes won't last. You're a guy too. Once you grow up, like that bastard, like all those other men, you'll leer at me with filthy eyes!"
"Emily...."
"I don't need any of it! Just... leave me alone. Please. Please stop. Don't hit me! I'll be good, I'll do it right! Aaaaah!"
At that tender age when her chest was just starting to bud, she was locked in that back room, dealing with dozens of men a day until she went mad. Father was one of them. Mother? She slapped me, saying daughters were way more profitable than sons. Why'd I have to be another boy? Surrounded by people like that, my angelic sister wasted away and died. The day her body floated down the Inn River like my two brothers before her, nine-year-old Ian went to church for the first time in his life and prayed.
"God."
"....."
"You can stop now. Taking care of people, sending down angels like my sister."
"....."
"The world seems too dangerous for angels to come down and look after it."
*Creeeak—*
"Heh heh heh heh. This year's wine is.... Hm? Oh, child. The door's locked—how'd you get in?"
"Pastor. That window... it's broken, right?"
"You devilish brat! Breaking the church's stained glass!"
That was the first time I ever talked to the pastor.
'God.'
"It's that kid, Pastor! The one from the yellow-roofed house at the crossroads!"
"That house... Get him out now! He's obviously here to rifle through the collection plate!"
"Stay still, you little thief!"
*Drag drag drag—*
'That means you get my story, right?'
*Splash!*
"Ugh!"
*Ptui! Filthy little pickpocket. Don't you ever come back here!"
"....."
"What a shame."
"Ah, the yellow-roofed house. Cheap and nice...."
*Boom!*
"I knew from the pastor's reaction. God had already given up on us long ago."
A bitter smile crept across the boy's lips. His angelic sister would never come down to earth again.
"...Please take good care of Sis, God."
"After that final prayer in front of those firmly shut doors, I never set foot in a church again. I found out later that my sister died of AIDS. She probably had no real education and just knew it as some contagion, so she pushed me away to keep it from spreading to me.... You crying?"
*Twang!*
"N-No! This campfire... the smoke's just too stinging!"
"Heh heh heh heh. A surveillance guy getting all sentimental like that?"
"Shut up! Anyway, what happened next? You kept living in that house? Buying booze with stolen cash and serving it up?"
*Flick, flick!*
*Huff—*
Ian paused for a moment and put a cigar in his mouth. With the harsh smoke, long-buried regrets poured out.
"That's what I planned. By then, I'd turned into a wooden puppet of a kid. No likes, no dislikes. Just, pain hurts, so steal to avoid it. Live like this until one lucky day Father's belt buckle cracks my skull and I float down the Inn after Sis. Until then."
"That day?"
"Yeah. Turns out God has decent aftercare."
*Kaboom!*
"Kyaaah!"
"Fire! Fire!"
"People are dying!"
"G-Get back! Who knows when it'll blow again! Gas fire!"
"...Whoa."
"Boa. That was the first word I uttered after Sis died, three months later. My voice coming out felt so foreign."
"The house... exploded?"
"Yeah. That yellow-roofed house was far from safe or peaceful. Gas explosion, they said. Probably some lame excuse like a cigarette ember."
Ian flicked the cigar from his mouth with a *tak*, and a tiny spark fluttered down.
"Just this much. That's all it took to wipe that house off the earth—the one that devoured all four of us siblings—and those trash heaps we could barely call parents."
Scattered ashes, a completely collapsed building. Looking at the house vanished without a trace, young Ian felt faint bewilderment and some strange, inexplicable emotion. That feeling he'd never known before left little Ian restless.
"It was fresh. 'So that's a way to do it' mixed with 'Now who'll kill me?' swirling around my head."
*Crackle, crackle—*
Gazing wistfully at the flames flickering in the chilly night air, Ian spoke.
"Emily.... If she'd held on just a bit longer, maybe she could've tasted a little of that ordinary life she dreamed of."
*Snort!*
Ian turned at the sound that didn't fit the starry sky and campfire vibe. After Axel, Beck had turned away and was wiping his nose.
"Should I stop?"
"W-What're you saying? Feels like we barely started."
"Pfft, you guys are still kids. Anyway.... So the quiet, gloomy, numb Ian was left alone in the world. With no desires or abilities, he squatted by the ruined house site for two full days until locals reported it, and he ended up at the police station, then the orphanage. Traumhaus—Dream House in our language. The turning point in the life of that scrawny boy who spent his days blankly isolated and bullied."
At "turning point," Beck's teary face lit up.
"You met your mentor! A kind, warm, cozy nun who healed young Ian's wounded heart...."
*Smack!*
"Ow!"
"What kinda bullshit story is that? There was a nun, sure, but she was just there to feed and watch us kids to make a living. Way better than Father, of course. Didn't beat us as much.... Well, not never. But she fed us regular. I liked that. Even with no real wants, I figured I could just zone out here forever, so I worked to stay out of the nun's bad books."
By then, Ian was fully used to going through life without speaking. Up at six a.m., mop the halls with a wet rag, clean the little barn behind the orphanage, fetch water from the well—then breakfast: coarse bread and watery soup. Finish that, then side work from the nearby chem plant. Finish quota, keep going at whatever was handy. Nothing else to do anyway. Then lunch. Afternoon cleaning, laundry. Dinner. Bed. Wake. A quiet, peaceful life of serene contentment.
"I just didn't want ties to anyone, that's all. But to Sister Margaret, this kid doing every task without a peep must've looked praiseworthy. She didn't even know my age, but she threw me a tenth birthday party, calling my intake day my birthday."
That day, Ian had been sitting blankly outside when the nun told him to close his eyes and follow. He thought, 'I must've done something huge wrong.' Father used to flip the blanket over his head and beat him whenever he hated that look.
But the nun led him not to the punishment room, but the communal dining hall.
*Pop! Bang!*
"""Happy birthday! Woo!"""
*Clap clap clap!*
"Happy birthday, Ian!"
"Congrats!"
"Wooow! Cookies!"
"Kids, it's Ian's birthday, so we're having treats—say thanks, okay?"
"Thanks, Ian!"
"That's Ian?"
"Thanks, Ian! Dig in!"
"....Everyone was smiling. First time for that. Until then, only Sis smiled at me. Even the kids who usually looked at me like a bug were grinning ear-to-ear and clapping."
It was a massive shock to young Ian.
Kids who treated him like he didn't exist everywhere were all smiling, calling "Ian!" and celebrating.
*Pop! Bang!*
*Clap clap clap clap!*
Cheap firecracker pops, sharp claps, laughing faces.
"Ah...."
*Pop!*
[*Kaboom!*]
*Bang!*
[*Kaboom!*]
Every time the blasts sent colorful paper scraps flying, Ian's mind flashed to his old house exploding in sparks.
"Ah.... Haha, hahahaha...."
"Whoa! Ian's smiling!"
"First time seeing that kid smile!"
"You can talk, huh!"
"....Yeah. First time I knew I could smile. Or even that I had before."
He didn't hear the kids chattering. Just *pop! pop!* firecrackers repeating, over the massive boom and collapsing house.
The more it replayed, the more a smile formed on little Ian's withered lips. That sensation he'd missed—innately faint emotions. It wasn't bewilderment; it was massive euphoria. Freedom and revenge reclaimed at last. Ian's gray world was already vividly painted by gas explosion roars and fire colors. A bit shattered, a bit twisted.
"That accident blew up my house, snapped my chains, sent me into the world. Those little firecrackers woke me to joy as an emotion. For scrawny little Ian, explosions became the one way to divide the world and his feelings."
He spoke calmly, but the tale was brutally cruel—especially from the teller himself.
"....So that's how you got obsessed with explosions?"
Ian nodded at the professor's words.
"Yeah. The near-sociopath boy felt happiness for the first time. From that day, Ian changed. Still quiet, but he'd talk to people some. Still barely felt emotions, but he started thinking 'this is less hassle, more efficient.'"
"And the time he earned with that efficiency? He spent studying the amazing thing that brought him joy: explosions. Black powder to smokeless, perchlorates, lead oxide-based, lead chromate mixes, ammonium nitrate extraction, destructive engineering.... Anything explosion-related, he devoured. Used pickpocketing skills to buy books, read 'em to rags, tracked down senile vets for old war stories, listened and listened.... Came to, and he was in college majoring in destructive engineering and chemistry. Once he learned thermal efficiency and such, he turned into a machine obsessing over max efficiency in everything."
*Spring!*
"Dahak? You, the avatar of ignorance and idiocy, went to college?"
"Kuh hah hah, total opposite of my cool now, right? Back then, I tried all the stuff others liked—nothing. Booze? Inefficient diluted alcohol. Hard liquor was better; it burned. Cigars? Just unnecessarily spicy. Thought adding gunpowder smell might help, lit a cig with powder—nearly blew my lips off. Women? Stuck to me like glue, annoyingly. Gave it my best—none matched explosives' bang.
Straight-up said 'Not into women, scram.' That just made 'em say it was hot, cling harder. Even guys misunderstanding piled on—total pain."
The three exchanged disbelieving frowns and glances. Meanwhile, Axel rummaged in his bag, pulling out pencil and paper.
*Scribble scribble scribble*
"Axel, what're you drawing now?"
"Hm.... Basing it on your face shape, but with an intact jaw and less muscle—young Ian. Gotta see to believe."
Axel was pretty drunk but his hand flew freely.
"Not bad, huh?"
"Kekeke. Got bonus points on the surveillance exam with this skill. Done!"
"Ooh!"
"Wooow!"
"Really looks like me when I was young."
The drawing showed a cool-eyed hunk who'd charm anyone, guy or girl.
"Like you? This ice prince and you?"
"Like a photo. Gaybar, you can draw."
Praise, but Axel's face was deeply complicated hearing it.
"You really looked like this? Ian, you really are...."
"Hm? What about me?"
"N-Nothing! Just saying you're hot! You deceiver!"
"Makes sense. Looking down with this face saying [Not interested, beat it]—girls'd swarm more."
"Bet a couple hearts exploded. My vote."
"Bullshit. What's good about it? Scrawny and creepy. Anyway, my only interests were explosions and ordnance. Thought about getting a construction gig demoing old buildings after graduation—but it fell short. I wanted to see shit blow up and burn right in front of me."
Ian grinned nostalgically, voicing his past self's feelings. No one empathized.
"Is that terrorist or college kid...."
"Bingo! Terrorism was on the list. Didn't care how many died—as long as I saw the boom. Always eyeing Middle East flights. While scouting that path.... Ended up dropping out and joining a PMC."
"PMC's...."
"Private military company. The only way to indulge my urges without turning criminal. Crime then jail's inefficient—no bombs in prison. Did two years as a bomb expert merc, then it blew up."
No one asked what "it" was. They all sensed it.
World War III. The Great War. Humanity's downfall.
"Jumped right in. Begged to go to the war's hotspot, Korea—the fiercest battlefield. Didn't care about my life. Just wanted to feel massive blasts up close, shells and bullets slicing air on pure explosive energy, flames and shrapnel.
Merc or not, I dove into the riskiest fights, set off blasts in the densest spots. Counted single-boom body counts, wrecked enemy gear—proud. Knew I could make the most beautiful explosions."
*Gulp gulp—*
*Clink.*
Recalling that era brought only ash and fire. Craved bigger, more. Efficiency obsession helped. Soon, people lined up to join my battlefields. I used 'em optimally, drove explosive-laden trucks at the forefront of the bloodiest fights.
To others, Ian was a commander worth ultimate respect. Soon, folks queued to take fatal spots for him.
"Jim, Carter, Kenichi. Take your platoons and seize the hill. Expect casualties—they're prepped. Questions?"
"You'll handle it fine, Ashfield."
"Like always, you'll swoop in right on time~! Heh heh heh."
"No room for shaky predictions. I stick to the plan."
"Yessir. Commander's frontline rampage is 'the plan,' right?"
"....Just a minor hobby."
"Puhaha! Hobby! Oh man! A hobby!"
"Ken! Disrespect to superior! Sorry, Ashfield sir. This guy's on me...."
"Enough. Kenichi's execution is unrelated to his mouth. 7th and 8th companies, with me—breach their line. Hit while hill guns are silenced."
"""Yes sir!"""
"Ready in 15. Today, we rip and burn the enemy."
"Every time I hear it, I wanna nut. Damn, marry me after the war, Ashfield!"
"Keeeenn!!!"
By war's end, Ian was officially Lt. Col. of the ROK 7th Armored Regiment, unofficially commanding attached mercs and volunteers. Always leading from the front, returning dust- and ash-covered, folks respectfully called him "Ashfield."
***
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